


The Game

by orphan_account



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Fight Sex, Foreplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's all a game, one that they like to take to varying degrees; they both know the moves like they know the taste of adventure.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a prompt over at the [Tintin Kink Meme](http://tintin-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1701.html) on Dreamwidth.

“Come on, Captain,” Tintin says with a fierce grin, bouncing on the balls of his feet; there is sweat dripping down into his eyes, and he swipes it away with one hand before it can sting. “Or have you had enough for the morning?”

The Captain glares at him, throws the sweater to one side – he always refuses to start a match in anything else, always claims that he won't even work up a sweat beating a lubberly stripling of a lad – and shakes his head like a dog. “Let's get down to business, laddie,” he says, moving into a fighter's crouch; his eyes are narrowed with intent as they start to circle one another, bare feet almost soundless on the wooden floor.

It's all a game, one that they like to take to varying degrees; they both know the moves like they know the taste of adventure.

Tintin attacks first, a swift lunge forward that he thinks makes excellent use of a little-known method of martial art that he first encountered in Tibet. The Captain grunts in surprise and blocks it, and they fall back to the circling, both watching like hawks.

The Captain is a big man, with a big man's well-built muscles, for all that he's a little soft around the stomach these days. Tintin knows himself to be a physical match for his friend, knows it from experience and a sure awareness of his own abilities, but Haddock would easily intimidate one less experienced than Tintin. “That all you've got?” Haddock asks conversationally, flexing big hands so that his shoulder muscles bunch; Tintin ignores this, waiting for the opportune moment. “Blistering blue barnacles, did they not teach you anything in that fancy monastery place?”

“A little patience, Captain,” Tintin says, watching his eyes closely as they flick to and fro, determined to gain the advantage. 

“Patience? Aye, that'll get you far when there's four of them and one of you.” Haddock moves, if not with the speed of a striking snake then plenty fast enough; Tintin blocks the blow, twisting and dancing away, revelling in his own surety. “You'd be the expert, of course, not having ever -”

Tintin comes in hard and fast, a pattern of kicks and punches that has the Captain falling back with an explosive curse; he feels a large hand grab onto his arm and twists free, only to find himself falling. A writhe to the right and he scissors his legs to bring Haddock crashing down beside him, and pins him with a knee to the small of the bigger man's back and a firm grip to his wrist, feeling tendons straining in protest under his fingers. “Now,” he pants, exerting all his strength to keep his opponent down. “Now how far have I got?”

“Thundering – all right, all _right_ ,” the Captain grumbles into the wooden floor; his chest is heaving and the hair at the nape of his neck is damp, sticking out at endearingly odd angles. “You – you got me. Now let an old man up, eh?”

Tintin narrows his eyes, struggling to hide a grin. “And how do I know you won't -”

“Ah, Tintin, Tintin, would I ever do such a low-down dastardly thing?”

Tintin eases the pressure. The Captain clambers to his knees, grumbling, one covert eye on Tintin. Tintin turns away, pretends to reach for his shirt.

Wham. He's face-down on the floor himself, pinned by strong arms and with the Captain's breathless laughter warm against his ear. “I can't think why y'can never remember -”

“Never turn your back on an enemy,” Tintin finishes, grinning to himself, even though the joke and the move itself are old. The floorboards are hard and uncomfortable; he gives an experimental wriggle.

“Lucky there are none of those here,” Haddock murmurs, beard and mouth scratchy-soft against Tintin's neck, and Tintin feels a familiar hot shiver run through him. The Captain shifts his weight and Tintin moves with him, rolling onto his back until he can look up into blue eyes. 

“I should hope not,” he agrees, and the Captain sighs, bends down to rest their foreheads together; their skin is sticky from cooling sweat where they touch, all along the length of Tintin's bare torso and where his hands curl around the Captain's upper arms. “Captain,” he murmurs, the frantic beating of his own heart slowing. 

“Aye,” the Captain says, and it's all just nonsense words now, all of it, until they kiss and Tintin digs his fingers into sweaty black hair with a pleased moan. “Tintin -”

Tintin rolls them over again, no easy feat with the Captain lying heavy and pliant on top of him, and sends his friend sprawling, arms and legs every which way until strong hands grasp Tintin's hips. His own knees hit the floor on either side of the Captain's waist, and when the Captain starts half-laughing, half-swearing, Tintin claims his mouth again.

This is not the whole point of the game, but it's pretty close.

He loves that he has to fight to hold Haddock down and that the Captain _lets_ him fight, that they are so much themselves like this, away from everything the world whispers of behind its hand and condemns. Tintin cares more than he likes to admit whenever he catches a rare glimpse of hatred, and so he treasures these moments – surprisingly few, with a life of adventuring and a house so full of people - moments caught in between one second and the next where he feels everything so acutely that it threatens to overwhelm him.

They are undone by the exhileration of the fight, more than half aroused to start with, and they grind together with few pretensions to finesse save for in the way they fit together; the kiss grows sloppy and frantic, the Captain's body arching against the wooden floor, Tintin's thighs trembling with the strain of it. “C-captain,” he manages, wishing their trousers were gone and unable to separate himself from the glorious friction.

“F-festering – what now?” the Captain pants, his eyes sliding shut.

Tintin ducks his head and licks up the Captain's throat, tasting salt on firm, tanned skin, exposed by the absence of that blasted sweater. The Captain makes a sound that Nestor can probably hear all the way downstairs, but Tintin is much too far gone to care. “Thought – you'd taste – good.”

“ _Tintin_ ,” the Captain says, and then Tintin reaches down and manages to jam one hand inside his trousers, and from there on it's a very few moments until they are both spent; the Captain comes with a muffled cry and Tintin with his face buried in the Captain's shoulder, pressed as close together as humanly possible, the euphoria leaping like fire through exhaustion.

They lie there in brief silence, gasping for breath once more, muscles twitching as they cool. Downstairs, the clock strikes twelve after a lazy interval; it is nearly lunchtime.

Haddock's hands stroke down Tintin's thighs, a question in the movement. Tintin huffs a laugh and sits back, shifting hastily when the Captain flinches. “Shall we call that round mine?” he muses as Haddock props himself up on his elbows, dazed and fantastically dishevelled.

“You – now listen, you scabrous seducer, that was my fight!”

“Oh come now, Captain, I had you fair and square!”

“Fair and – I tricked you into the – a draw,” Haddock amends hastily as Tintin rises to his knees with a meaningful look, “let's call it a draw, eh?”

It always is on days like these, Tintin thinks with a smile, and staggers to his feet; the Captain grips the offered hand to follow suit, and then they pause for a moment, deep in each other's space, just breathing. When they move apart, the world still turns.

The game is never truly won, certainly never lost, and so very far from over.


End file.
